From dawn until dusk, I was surrounded by green landscapes, soft sounds, and colourful flowers while growing up. I started climbing trees as soon as I was tall enough to grab a branch and reached the top. The smell of wet earth reminds me of rolling on the grass under the pouring rain with my mother and brother, my grandfather watching us from the window shaking his head in disapproval but laughing.

Mountains, magnifically, are the embodiment of those memories. I’m not a person who likes exercising, not at all, but I cannot pass the chance to go hiking and surround myself with the smell and sounds that feel like home, memories that warm my heart and calm my breath, specially when homesickness gets the best of me.

Mountains are the opportunity to get away from the overwhelming sounds and lights from the city, to let this fast-paced world behind. The chance to be under a clear midnight sky with stars shining bright, no artificial light on sight to shadow them. It’s hard to find a freedom that feel as real and whole as the one that comes out from our hearts on a hike.

I have often felt a kinship with nature, sometimes getting the overwhelming need of walking barefoot outside, of touching a tree, a flower, for just a moment, just the split of a second, just enough time to absorb the familiar goodness of Mother Nature.

On a less romantic approach, we also have a tumultuous relationship where wildlife often collides with the clumsiness that has haunt me my whole life. Counting how many times I fall per hike and making a proportion according to the kilometres walked, has become a joke and a must at the end of the day. I love nature, and I wholeheartedly believe that nature loves me back, but, as in any relationship, there are bumps on the road. Only in this specific case the bumps are real and not metaphorical.

— Magpie